


We are one

by ClearJello, Muja



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blood, Creepy, Fingerfucking, M/M, Object Insertion, Other, Rape, Suit Porn, Technological Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClearJello/pseuds/ClearJello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muja/pseuds/Muja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You said we were one, Tony... You've been inside me, ...now it's my turn to be inside you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are one

**Author's Note:**

> Based off'a this gif: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcc4kpoEfc1rpcea3o1_500.gif  
> 'Dis was started waaay back after the first Iron Man trailer... before we found out it was Pepper in the suit... whoops.
> 
> \- M/M 'cause we envision the suit to have a penis. Fuck you.
> 
> Written by Hysamacc and Beta/Co-Written by ClearJello

"Whoever you are," Tony strains, his voice wavers some while struggling for air, "get the fuck _out of my suit!_ " This promptly persuades his assailant to look up; Iron Man's face plate stares straight back at him. The gauntlet that easily holds tight both of Tony’s wrists jerks, twisting his arms in a painful angle while the other presses hard atop his chest, stopping him from adjusting to relieve the ache. "Jarvis! Shut this asshole down, override code-" The suit’s limb lashes out almost instantaneously, gauntlet now firmly planting over Stark’s mouth with the digits themselves putting stress on the bones of his face. Jarvis should have shut down the suit by now... should have assembled the Avengers... should have _called Pepper_ (even Dr. Doom would be afraid of being on _her_ bad side). However, whoever this is, they’re an expert - managing not only to hack into the suit, but also force Jarvis to go completely offline. Now free hands pull at the metal appendage; it’s getting harder to breath and Tony thinks there's going to be a damn ring on his face from the repulsor.

 

The suit shifts, grounding its hands on either side of Tony’s head to support itself without crushing him under its considerably heavier weight. "Listen, you asshole! In case you weren’t aware, _I_ _don't like people touching my stuff!_ " Tony desperately grabs at the helmet, attempting to find the emergency latch that would open the faceplate. Two armored limbs shoot up to grasp Stark’s wrists in a painfully hard grip, slamming them back to the floor. It’s close now, hovering over him near enough that the optical orifices cast a glow upon his more pronounced features. "What do you want from me?" Tony’s practically growling now; he loathes when others toy with him almost as much as when they mess with his possessions.

 

" ** _You said we were one, Tony..._** " The suit speaks in a pure, metallic eminence - the resonation of the tonal synthesizer without any of Tony’s own vocalization. The sound makes his blood run cold, heart feeling as though it was skipping beats even though the arc reactor regulates that. Tony’s too intelligent not to comprehend what’s happening, but believing it goes against the very logic that Tony prides himself on. The suit’s visage moves in closer - if that was even possible, yet still without making physical contact. Tony shifts himself away with as much allowance as the floor and this position offers him against the suit’s assault. " ** _You've been inside me,_** " it’s practically on top of him at this point. The faceplate presses right against his ear, causing the edge where it joined with the helmet to snag on Tony’s earlobe as he twists in a vain effort avoid it. " ** _...now it's my turn to be inside you._** " And this, even under monitor of the arc reactor, causes his heart to jump and body to freeze. _Fuck._ Tony's life is so far from the norm - he just wishes to be his usual, eccentric genius billionaire self, but instead he’s plagued with desert hostage situations, theft of technology, and now _this_ : his own suit making sexual implications.

 

"Oh, okay big guy. How about we talk this out? I can make us a few drinks, and we'll figure something out..." The suit slides down his body and relinquishes Tony’s wrists in exchange for taking hold of his clothes. _Double fuck._ "You, me, Jarvis... the three of us can work out a way for us to be one! No problem, it'll be a blast, really!" Cold digits work their way under his shirt, wasting no time grabbing for the hemline of his jeans. "Hey now, let’s not do anything we'll regr-," Tony, though cut off, doesn’t yelp, because yelping was for little girls (and for Steve when someone calls the cellphone that he forgets he has). The Suit has practically ripped his jeans down to his ankles and is somewhat fumbling in attempts to get them off completely - a fact Tony would find very amusing if he wasn't busy having what he could only describe as a mild panic attack. His shirt’s removal is far easier, though Tony doesn't really notice ‘til after he feels his head back against the floor. Completely naked and laying out before his pride and joy creation, he’s at its mercy.

 

With a sharp intake of air, Tony’s breath audibly hitches and muscles tense abruptly as a cold, metal finger fixes against his opening. With the addition of pressure, it jolts his brain back into function, and he begins to practically _seize_. Tony’s torso twists wildly as hands fly down in attempt to halt the infiltration, one pulling at the metallic wrist while the other switches between prying at the jointed digit and trying to cover his entrance. "W-What the fuck makes you think this will... m-make us _one_?!" His shriek is only met with a cold hand of steel firmly planting on his chest to restrict movement, his breathing becoming more arduous as a result. The suit, ignoring Stark’s physical protests, advances hard enough for its fingertip to breach the orifice, and the action rewards the suit with a sharp gasp from its victim. "You piece of junk!" There’s nothing to ease the glide of hard metal into unprepared flesh; it simply presses harder. "I'll melt you down and turn you into goddamn paper weights!" Tony, quaking in fear, grabs at the helmet, sweat-slicked fingers sliding fruitlessly along the smooth plains of metal.

 

His effort merits only a hard _shove_ further into his body. It was fast, unforgiving, and plunged all the way to the first joint. Tony whips his head back, cracking the back of his skull against the floor. Both arms jerk back uselessly, seizing up in sheer _panic._ Despite the suit observing this, Tony knows even through his mild disorientation of the suit’s inability to become startled. The gauntlet deviates from his chest in favor of checking its captive’s head, digits probing the back of Stark’s skull to inspect for pained reactions or bleeding; scanners aren’t currently functioning since Jarvis controls that....

 

Once the suit is assured that Tony isn’t experiencing a concussion, it relinquishes its hand to his chest to secure him as it resumed. The suit twists its finger around inside, subsequently _slicing through tender membranes like sharpened sheers through paper_. Tony’s resulting screams permeate the initial silence. His hand abruptly descends and struggles to grab at the intruding arm, trying in vain to pull at what’s been designed by himself to be unbending.  “JARVIS! OVERRIDE CODE-,” Are those tears in his eyes? “Three-four-... f-four-four,” Digits dive deeper still, movements made easy with the assistance of _blood._ “F-fi-five-four... s-si-Oh god, Jarvis just turn it off....!” There’s no question now about his tears, his grip reducing to just a blatant hold for dear life. Sensing no more resistance, the suit diverts its hand from Stark’s chest to his thigh, guiding said limb aside to gain better access. The metal was warming now, heating from prolonged contact with Tony’s living tissue.

 

Stark visibly flinches as the length of finger removes itself entirely; he can feel edged joints catching on the folds of muscle, but his blood fortunately slicks the way to prevent further laceration. He has worked out twenty-three variations of how such a scenario will play through, but this is beyond any logical possibility (even more so than number seventeen where Dummy comes charging at the suit, hits it with a coffee pot, and concludes in an intense arm wrestle for his purity). His breath is still ragged and his body on edge from the initial shock. He’s been fucked over too many times throughout his lifetime to even consider be _hopeful_ about the situation. Damnit! If only he could cease his worthless crying! Emotions always fuck with his typically level mentality. The suit draws up Stark’s legs, bending both knees to firmly plant and secure its creator’s feet on the floor... _separating them for easier access._ Small spatters of blood collect along one leg - little things - but it still inspires nausea. Once this position is deemed suitable, the sentient armor resumes its assault, bloodied index finger relinquishing to its creator’s entrance... and its thumb against his _perineum._

 

At the intrusion, Tony is incapable of preventing a loud, vocal response, little flashes of pressure being applied to his innards. This is... different from Afghanistan, or even Obie; this is _intimate_. And there’s no way out. Stark cannot simply stall for time pretending to construct weapons while in his suit’s intelligent presence. He's never before experienced such helplessness - completely at another's mercy with no escape or plan of action to be enacted. Index digit plunges in deeper to search while the thumb strokes sensitive exterior skin. Tony’s own hand flies up to aimlessly shove at the helmet, the chest piece, anything within arm’s reach. While he struggles as much as humanly possible, one wrong move will result in further tearing of the supple, inner tissue. "JARVIS! MAKE IT FUCKING STOP!" Tony is growing irrational, yet he can’t cease, can't bring himself to think straight and comprehend how pointless it is to protest. "OVERRIDE CODE THREE-FOUR, FOUR-FOUR, FIVE-FOUR, SIX-FOUR!" He starts babbling patterned numbers again, yelling louder than previously. "THREE-FOUR!" He braces both feet on the armor’s plated chest, pushing and kicking; it didn't react at all, much less budge even an inch against his feeble, human strength. More flesh rends from the movement within, producing more sanguine lubricant for future conduct. "FOUR-FOUR!" Tony instead resorts to another go at removing the hand inside him; perhaps he’ll detect a weak point that’ll release the offender’s grip... even though he’s designed such weakness to be impossible.

 

Panic starts to ensue, respiration ascending to hyperventilation. "F-five-FO-" The suit relieves Stark’s groin of its hand and presses said appendage to its creator’s thorax, traces of blood smearing on the casing of Tony’s illuminated arc reactor as his struggling persists. "Four... si-" A sudden, swift strike is administered against Tony’s visage, jarring his brain yet not disrupting bone. Considering he’s designed the suit’s strength to far exceed the limits of the human body, he realizes it must’ve held back. The sound that resonates from the collision of metal against flesh is foreign and odd.

 

The suit pauses, letting Tony just lay there in much needed suspense to allow his brain a necessary reboot. It closely monitors his breathing as it stabilizes. Stark acquires some cognition that his body’s being moved as simple logic replaces his festering emotions, returning him to his earlier state. Bending at the knee, both feet firmly root to the floor. With his brain entirely back online, he directs his attention to the suit. He can't contest with it; spending too few hours at the gym rather than the many spent in the lab sitting around and consuming questionable substances didn’t support Hulk-like strength, obviously - not that anyone can parallel his suit to begin with. He is _Iron Man_ , yet he can't even stop himself from being assaulted - can't stop himself from being assaulted by _Iron Man._ This can’t be real. This is just some bad trip he's having in college because he can't afford decent stuff. _Denial_.

 

But it _is_ reality, confirmed so as two fingers press up threateningly against his hole this time...  _Fuck_. With doubt, he desperately sweeps both hands southbound in attempts to prevent another painful invasion. "Stop. Please..." The great _Tony Stark_ reducing himself to begging the only good thing he's ever made not to do him harm...? "Please, just stop.... it... it hurts." Tears pool from the ducts lining his lower eyelids - emotion resorting to a physical outlet as Stark refuses to accept them otherwise. Tony always prefers machines to living, breathing, human beings simply because they function of pure logic. No emotions, no weaknesses to cloud judgement. So really, in retrospect, Stark knows better than to beg or attempt to appeal to an emotional response. It’s no genuine surprise when the onslaught of metal digits continue without regard, driven by a predetermined directive. His respiration threatens another increase, but the already labored breathing has since set his lungs painfully ablaze.

 

Tony estimates that the fingers have been swallowed down to their first joints. He's still drifting between accepting the true gravity of the situation and the hopeful safety and security of a potentially logical solution. He suddenly can't help pondering if the sentient armor can also physically detect what it’s doing... if the sharp, lifeless metal can _feel_ his insides or if it solely relies on visual input. In response to its creator’s obedience, the suit rewards said victim with an almost affectionate glide of its plated hand down the side of Tony’s otherwise neglected body. Now that he’s somewhat calm and compliant, further advance into his rear becomes considerably easier; the combination of natural lubricant and muscle relaxation spares him of further injury.

 

With pinpoint accuracy only technology can ever hope to achieve, the plated apices of each immersed digit hone in on their target, suddenly applying pressure to a specific bundle of nerves that merits a pang of instantly overwhelming sensation within its creator. Another finger presses against the already occupied ring of muscles, galvanizing Tony into snagging the suit’s jointed wrist without regard for how vain the effort. Maybe, if he wants it bad enough, he’ll will himself to dent the metal as though he is Thor. The imposing fingertip merely bides its time dragging around the already filled orifice, occasionally delving inside but vastly unsuccessful with any legitimate attempts to enter. Even though his body is relaxed, let’s face it, blood is hardly a substitute for proper lube... especially when dealing with _metal_. The armor’s thumb returns to its creator’s perineum to start rubbing against it in tandem with its periodic application of pressure against the prostate from within. What the hell is this!? It’s simply too much for Tony to handle all of the sudden. He shouldn't enjoy it; he _knows_ he shouldn't. But then... Tony never practices enough self-discipline to deny himself pleasure, nor does he ever feel inclined to. It’s also been admittedly quite some time. Coupled with his body and mind still in a state of disconnection, blood begins defying his protesting mind in favor of raw, physical stimulation. His thoughts on the matter simply lack value against primal, carnal urges.

 

"Nh-ah..." Tony contorts with a groan when the suit applies even a fraction more pressure to both points of his prostate, and he shamefully feels himself becoming erect before his mechanic assailant. The gauntlet that’s been a constant presence against the curvature of his hip begins to deviate from its post, traveling closer to his groin and sweeping through well-kempt, dark curls to settle at the base of his phallus. Stark's mind begins to dampen with pleasure in response to the suit’s sudden, slow pumping of his member in perfect, synchronized harmony with the dual sensation against his internal hot spot. All three applications are perfectly in tandem, and it feels _incredible_.No human will ever be capable of recreating this robotic precision he was currently experiencing.

 

And... and he’s losing, it isn’t he? Hands that’d been pushing prior now glide up their assailant’s plated appendage in what his sex-drunk mind refused to refer to as a _caress_. Even in his refusal to admit enjoyment, his own creation gives him more satisfaction than ever achievable on his own. The suit shifts it's iron grip around that engorged cock to physically follow a prominent vein with its thumb, inspiring a heated, vocal response from its now willing captive. The third digit that’s been teasing the outer, muscular ring finally manages to slip inside - not far, but just enough that it isn’t immediately rejected.

 

Overwhelmed, Tony contorts, vocally straining as the suit works him from base to sensitive apex and even rounding over the blood-engorged head just as he prefers. He knows well enough that _Jarvis_ frequently watches him masterbate as Jarvis watches everything, but is it possible the armor has been observing this whole time as well or possibly has access to the same information as Jarvis. Has some some rogue AI developed that’s enamored with studying those jerk-off sessions in the lab? He’s not alloted much time to think on such things, however. Tony suddenly chokes on his latest inhale as the suit returns its furled fingers to the base of that sensitive organ while giving thorough attention his prostate both internally and externally... not to mention that third digit trespassing inside as well _._ His body spasms at the sudden intrusion. He feels so occupied, back flattening out against the floor whilst both legs reach out to desperately find themselves hooking and locking around the suit’s waist as if in need of support.

 

“.... Hey....,” The suit is no longer looking down at him but instead focusing intently on its actions. In an effort to regain its attention, he groans and tightens his grip around the suit’s torso with both legs as its fingers twist and shift inside of him, sinking deeper still. Tony’s sweat-slicked palms skid along the floor in a last ditch effort to locate something to grab onto as he rides sparks of pleasure during another smooth, metallic glide down his length and application of pressure to his prostate. “..H-AH-hey....,” He pauses, trying desperately regain composure, “Look at me, dammit!” Human hands launch skyward to grab at the emotionless, inhuman helm, feebly attempting to move the immovable. The suit, however, counters this measure with movements so swift that it’s practically a blur to Stark’s less than capable optics, his engorged organ released in favor of ceasing Stark’s gestures. With robotic precision, both wrists are snatched and locked in a cold, inescapable grasp before being thrust down upon the floor, uncomfortably twisting Tony’s spine. In shock, his exasperated breathing is the only sound to follow against the harsh silence.  Digits inside him pause their sensual assault as an emotionless visage snaps down to apathetically leer into the widened eyes of its silenced victim, optics aglow with not only charge but unbending dominance.

 

Satisfied after a brief intermission of silence, it relinquishes its attention solely upon the working of its hands. Releasing its captive’s wrists, the gauntlet repositions to take a firm hold beneath a round cheek and elevates Tony’s rear, forcing its creator’s legs to relocate around the armor’s thorax. At the sudden alteration in positioning, a distinctive grunt resonates from deep in Tony’s chest followed by the formation of tears. _No, no more crying_...The adjustment allows him to view his own erection. _How can he forget that he’s still hard?_ The gauntlet once supporting his weight gravitates back to his engorged length and re-administers its grip, leaving Tony to secure himself via tightening his legs. Solid digits coil around the organ’s base with care as those inside and against his perineum resume movement, delicately messaging. Soft grunts and groans chase away the silence as new, electrified waves of pleasurable sensation sweep through his nervous system and drug his brain. He can do nothing more than hug his arms to his heated body and kneed at the floor, careful now from the altercation that bruised his wrists prior.

 

Swiveling his head slowly as to not provoke the sentient armor, he takes note of its focus - still dedicated entirely to its rhythmic, systematic link between pressure application and vertical stroking. He contorts to once again mold to the flatness of the floor, dispersing his breaths into faint, barely audible gasps and moans. He remains still, locking eyes upon the stoic faceplate of his own creation while both arms protect his chest in natural instinct to secure the arc reactor. No matter how idiotic the notion, Stark hardly bothers to suppress the urge for cold, hard metal against his palms. His pride and joy. His magnum opus. Unfurling his arms, he reaches out slowly, reluctantly, hopefully, hands shaking with fear... _with pleasure_. Above him, it doesn’t move, still consumed with it’s actions: _down, up, twist, repeat_. Tony hesitantly rests his sweat-slicked palms on either side of its edged visage, releasing another audible gasp through his burning windpipe as particular attention was paid to the prominent underside of that phallic head. The suit lowers its intense, luminant gaze to oblige Stark’s human need for eye contact, less threatening than previously for some reason. Encouraged, his touch upgrades to an almost affectionate caress...

 

“Please.” Tony gasps, leaving the suit’s fingers slicked with a much more desirable fluid than blood...

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guis, guess whut. >u>
> 
> ...
> 
> This was originally planned to be full-on fisting. ;D
> 
> (And, so you can never un-see it, imagine if it WAS Pepper in the suit. HUHUHUHUHUUUUU.)


End file.
